A Latin Swear Word

One of the funnier things in my life over the past week has been my mother. Really, there's no one like her and I'm beginning to appreciate that more and more. Before I used to hate it and it would annoy me terribly, but now, appreciation is beginning to sink in and I really think that's a good thing.

On Sunday night while the family was playing a game, I said "booyah" about something. I had probably just built a settlement in Settlers, but that's besides the point. My mom is the Queen of I-know-absolutely-nothing-about-pop-culture, so of course she gave me a bewildered face. She asked me what "booyah" was and I told her the first thing that I could think of, that it is a very bad swear word. Now, my mom is a girl of the fifties, conservative beyond description, really. In short, she doesn't swear. (Actually, I do have a rather faded memory of my mom bringing in groceries and dropping a bag and I thought she said "sh*t" but she denied it and I think cried because her children thought she was vile and no longer a Christian.)

So immense pleasure has been brought to my life by trying to get my mom to say "booyah." She's done it a few times (she really just wants to fit in like everyone else in this world), but she always asks me what it means. She even told me one time that it's just been so long since she's taken Latin. I just roar and roar.

I am not sure how long this can continue. For a while it's funny, then it's just cruel. Oh mothers. What would we do without them in this world?

The Loss of a Love

Just yesterday I gave a shout-out to my beloved car, Victor the Volvo. Now, I must say up front that I didn't actually invest any money to get this car, which is one reason why it's so beloved, but it is also just a fantastic car and who doesn't love Volvo's?

Well, today I went in to check on Victor's little oil leak that he's had for a few weeks now. It wasn't good news. Now, I don't know much/anything about cars, but I still heard the diagnosis loud and clear: there is a leak in the motor and it all needs replaced. There were many other parts described and pointed at, but I was 1) already too saddened/shocked about the news of the motor to try to understand and 2) I never know what car people are talking about anyway. They obviously don't know that this is my first car and I sing opera for crying out loud. I think car knowledge is so helpful and beneficial, but really, if I can check my oil and put gas in, I think I'm doing pretty well.

My next question was logical: so what do I do with this oil leak? The response brought great grief and anxiety: sell it now. They spoke of my car as if it was a dirty old rag and didn't even have enough respect to not speak poorly of him while he was nearby. Granted, I've only had this car for seven months, but we've had seven glorious months, with trips to Pennsylvania and Chicago, a dozen or so trips to Upland, and a few thousand trips to the beloved Olive Garden, where Victor often enjoys the "Employee of the Month" spot up front because I was either running late or simply wanted to show him off to everyone who came into the restaurant (tips go down when the customers find out YOU'RE the one driving the '92 Volvo). Goodness, I even have two tickets with this car. When he started going way too fast all on his own, did I just abandon and leave? No, and now when he gives me one sign of trouble, I'm up and gone. It just doesn't seem fair, doesn't seem faithful.

Now, I'm devastated. I probably shouldn't admit this, but while I was telling Joy on the phone, I started to cry a little. They told me I could run it for a while and just keep a carton of oil in my trunk and hope the overly-oiled belt doesn't slip off and cause me even greater grief, but they really think my best bet is to sell it now. They all just kept talking about how Volvo's aren't cheap to fix. I wanted to tell them that love isn't cheap either, but we don't just throw it on the side of the road with cigarette butts and beer cans, do we? It's give and take, ya know? You give the Volvo love and praise and the Volvo takes all your money. Really it's quite simple. I don't think they would have understood. They probably don't know a thing about love either for that matter.

So I think tomorrow sometime my mother and I are going to go around to a few used car dealerships. Sounds trashy, doesn't it? I don't even have the slightest idea of what I'm doing. I guess my goal is to find a car I want and can somehow afford (why did I just make that trip to Colorado and did I really need to get tickets to see Kelly Clarkson in concert?!) and hope they give me some money for my good friend Vic. (Vic is short for Victor the Volvo, lest we get confused with Vicki, my mom. Her nickname is Vickers.) My mom, Vickers, says I probably can't get another Volvo because they're expense and truthfully, they are kinda expensive to fix. I don't even know which cars are good and which aren't. I feel like Neons are girly (even if Blom has one) and Hondas run forever, but who knows if those are even true. If anyone has any advice, I beg of you to help me. I kinda want a jeep, but think that's probably out of the picture too. This is one of the saddest days of my life. Okay, I may be a little bit over-dramatic, but give me a break. It's my first car and now I have to be unfaithful and find another. There will never be another "first car" just like there will never be another "first love." (Really, the parallels between cars and love is remarkable. I might write a book about it.)

Plus, when it comes down to it, this is gonna cost me money, and that really is the sad and upsetting part. Joy, I think we may have to change our honeymoon plans. Why are we going to Mexico anyway? I hear Rockford can be very nice in December.

Idol Frustrations

Everyone who knows me should know that I really do love "American Idol." The fourth season is currently happening, and honestly, I didn't really get into it too much. I saw a few scattered weeks, but really, without people to watch the show with and an evening work scheudle, it just faded into the thoughts of the "good ole college days." I always said I was going to get more serious about this season when they got down to the final twelve. That was the stated goal, and I started off extremely well, watching with Drew and Blom in sweet sweet Eagle-Vail, Colorado. Then I came back home to Shelby and the frustration began.

You see, for the last two weeks I've had to work when Idol was on, but have tried both weeks to get the VCR set up so my dad could tape it for me and I could watch it when I got home. My dad, Pastor Bob, husband of knows-nothing-about-pop-culture Vickers, actually loves American Idol and has been a devotee for a few years now. So he was more than willing to tape it for me, but I just can't get the VCR to tape. Last week it was bad, then this week I dug out my VCR from my closet and tried every hook-up and connection I could think of, and still it wouldn't record. I think maybe something is wrong with the TV. Anyway, I don't know what to do and I am horribly disturbed about all of this. Why can't technology and I be friends?

In Idol-related news, today was positively beautiful. One of those it's-almost-spring days when the sun is warm and people go around in t-shirts and skimpy shirts and flip-flops a little before they really should. I even bet there would have even been a few ladies on Olson Beach today if they all weren't on Spring Break. It's one of those days when you want to get in a car (I absolutely LOVE my Volvo! You are my hero MMG!!!), roll all the windows down, and blare a diva from the speakers. I, of course, chose Kelly Clarkson. I'm currently a little obsessed with her and am gearing up for seeing her in concert next weekend. My life couldn't be better, really. I suppose it could've been better if Taylor was there and we were loop cruising, because that really is beyond comparison, but Taylor is in Boston and there is no one walking the loop right now anyway.

Today I've been reminded again (it seems I am always being reminded of this, which is fine by me) that I have such great people in my life that are willing to be my friends. I love you one and all, young and old, those that make me think and those that just make me laugh. Some are all around the world (shout-outs to the Egyptians and Aussies!), but really, none of them are very close to me, and that saddens me. Anyway, I love them all and am challenged by them all and am so grateful that I actually believe I have friends out there who know me and still accept me. That's a pretty beautiful thing.

The Hiding of the Baskets

A few years ago, when I came home from Easter during college, I woke up on Easter morning and saw Easter baskets simply sitting on the fireplace mantle. I was furious. I told my mother I would not accept my Easter basket, that it had to be hidden. It would honestly be the equivalent of my parents not wrapping Christmas gifts but simply putting sweaters and shirts and games randomly under the tree. What is the fun in that? Come on now, everyone knows part of the thrill on Christmas morning is actually unwrapping the gifts. (Note that I said "part of the thrill." The gifts are still very much important in themselves, so don't think a horrible gift counts simply because it's wrapped and all. It doesn't.) It's the same with the Easter basket. I don't actually care too much about the candy and juices and apples that come in my Easter basket, but I reallyt do care very much about searching for the basket on Easter morning. Yes, I'm five and I don't care. So when this happened a few years ago, I was pretty devastated and told my mother I would go to my room for ten minutes while she hid the basket. I think that was a moment when she wondered why she had a fourth child. But my mother is a great mother and she of course hid my basket. (I think it was pretty easy that year, in the dryer or oven or some other standard hiding place that used to work, but I did only give her ten minutes after all...)

Now onto this year: I woke up and because of the business of the season, the baskets weren't even ready. I didn't show my frustration, and when I got home from work, my mom and dad made the wait worthwhile. They sat us all down (I was actually way too excited and had way too much adrenaline to sit down) and told us that this year the baskets were hidden next door in the church. There was howling and screaming, mostly by me, but nonetheless, you could tell everyone was pretty excited. The couples (Jess and Tim, Chris and Jen) each had a basket and I had my own (one of the last remaining benefits of being single...not having to share my Easter basket). They took us to the foyer of the church, told us the boundaries, and let us lose, telling us there was even a prize for the first one to find a basket. We went off. I went through the nursuries first, then the balcony, skipped the sanctuary because I was pretty sure my parents would think it was sacreligious to hide a basket there, and then went up to the baptistry area. Way in the back corner of the maze of rooms that is behind the church, in a room where they do all the pretty flower arrangements, I saw my basket. I went to the baptistry, screamed that I had found one so that everyone would know, and when I arrived back to the foyer, I realized I was indeed the first one to find a basket. You can't imagine the elation in my soul.

Chris and Jen then found the second basket (in the women's bathroom downstairs), but Jess and Tim were really having a hard time. So the rest of us joined in the search but simply couldn't find it anywhere. So as the devious children that we are, when we were all in the back rooms far from my parents, I told them we should just leave the church through one of the back doors and go home, seeing how long my parents would just sit in the foyer thinking we were off searching somewhere for the lost basket. Well, it was a moment of siblinal bliss. (I don't think siblinal is a word, but it should be. Basically, it was a moment of bliss shared by siblings.) We went back to the house, started the game of Settlers of Catan (positively my favorite game ever), and within a few minutes my parents found us at home, and laughter erupted again. They gave us a big hint and we went back and found the basket, and really, it was one of those great family memories I just think I'll probably treasure for a really long time.

You see, I've never thought there were a lot of benefits to being a pastor's kid. But being able to have the hunt for the Easter baskets in the church has got to be at the top of the list.

Ragamuffins

What a wonderful Easter I had! It seems each year the reality and pretending of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ hits me more and more. I am going to share my favorite part of the morning service with you all now. I'm sure you have all been to Easter services where a cross is carried down the aisle of the church, usually during some dramatic reading or powerful and sentimental piece of music. This seems to happen every year in my church. Perhaps they think that since they spend the time and effort to build a cross they should at least use it once every year. And really it can be a good visual reminder of what our Lord did years and years ago and what we are called to do every moment of our lives as we follow Him. Regardless, when the cross is usually carried in, I usually see an elder of the church, or at least someone who is within church leadership and respected in the church as a "man of God." While I suppose there isn't something inherently wrong with this, I really loved our cross carrier yesterday morning. You see, it was this awkward, somewhat embarrassed, young kid, probably around 12 years old. And whereas the deacon or elder usually has on his "Easter Best" suit and tie, this one wore jeans and old tennis shoes and a beautiful black button-down with yellow and red and orange streams of fire shooting from the bottom upwards. Really, it was something that can be found at truck stops all across America. (And yes, I am one to know, which you will already realize if you read my comments on the I-80 truck stop that I wrote last week.) He fumbled with the cross and when he went to put it in its upright position at the front of the church, he just wasn't tall or big enough to get quite the leverage needed for an easy placement. But he struggled and succeeded, and I loved it. I think I cried. Because to me that's what the church needs more of, and when he struggled and succeeded I couldn't help but think that's what happens so often in the Christian life. It's one long process with a whole lot of struggle. I don't go to a big or flashy church but I'm noticing more and more that the people that do come are a random group of ragamuffins, to steal a term from our dear friend Brennan Manning. Sure, there are the holy stoics who have been there for centuries, but there are also these others coming, people who know very little about God and this thing called Christianity. There are ex-Mormans, mentally handicapped, and the very poor. It makes me delighted to see them and I feel honored to be a small part of the community with them, even though I honestly don't know any of them very well. I used to be really excited about changing churches when I move in a few months, getting away from the small-town church my dad has always pastored, but yesterday I realized that there really is something quite beautiful going on there and I think some part of me will really miss that. I hope I always am moved by the community that is the Church, even if the Church is also something of great frustration and sadness. It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever experienced or can imagine and is something I always want to be a part of. Because, really, we're all ragamuffins. Sure, some may look more like ragumuffins on the exterior or based on what we think society may label as a ragamuffin, but I know I'm a ragamuffin, struggling and seeking and wanting to belong. I love that we are all equal at the foot of the Cross, that Christ does not go with stereotypes and is the Truth. I love that He desires to know me. I also know that Christ loves ragamuffins and wanted to associate with them. And since I want Christ to associate with me and I certainly want to associate with Christ, I think being a ragaumuffin must be a pretty good thing.

Driving Worship

I often find that when I am driving I communicate with God, and God communicates with me. I often pray and worship and love Him all at the same time while weaving in and out of traffic. There have been many times the tears simply start pouring (driving and crying are often simultaneous for me) and I've either had to pull over to side of the road until I could see again or cover my face while at a red light so the cars next to me don't see that I'm a bawling baby. It really is a beautiful thing that I wish I could package and carry with me every moment of every day. It doesn't happen every time I drive and I can't really manipulate it into being there. Once in a while, a certain line hits me from a CD (such as Over the Rhine's line "Whoever brought me here is gonna have to bring me home") or a thought crosses my mind about my salvation and redemption and I find myself aching to be in God's presence, and then I realize that on some very real level, I am already there. I listen to David Crowder Band singing "Praise, Praise the Father, Praise the Son. And Praise the Spirit three in one" (really, I love that poem by St. Francis of Assisi) and my whole being, my entire soul, longs to be with my Saviour. I wonder how to capture this awe, this desire, on a more permanant level. But maybe that's not a good desire. I'm just not sure. I mean, I do believe God wants us to be in constant worship with Him, but perhaps this looks different than simply me crying while I drive. I mean, that is a heightened sense of worship for me, but that doesn't mean worship isn't also happening at other, more subdued times, perhaps in even more beautiful and subtle ways. I'm not even close to understanding the Holy Spirit, and I think that's for the best. Perhaps when I desire to be in a more evident state of worship on a more regular schedule it is me trying to play god and decide when the Holy Spirit will move. But I do love those somewhat rare moments in the car by myself when I feel so extraordinarily close to my Creator and Saviour. Easter is coming up this weekend. It seems so early this year and I honestly haven't given it much thought until this week. Perhaps after church and after hanging out with my family and after working at the OG I will get in my car and go for a late drive, seeking out this One who died for me. He's there regardless of my seeking and hoping, but I want to find a time to really thank Him this year. Each year it seems I am more and more stricken by what happened when He was born, died, and then rose from the dead, and I hope that never changes. I hope I will long more and more to be in His presence, and until that happens, to help bring His kingdom here on Earth. I encourage you to find a time to meet Jesus this Easter. Maybe it's in the corner of your room cuddled up inside a blanket, maybe it's with your family around the Easter feast, maybe it's singing with the other struggling saints at church, maybe it's laying on a beach in Florida (for all you Spring Breakers from Taylor), or maybe it's going for a drive and believing that Jesus Christ is right there with you. Regardless, have a blessed Easter.

Food in the Midwest

One of the goals of Colorado 2K5 was to experience food that we don't just have at our homes in Illinois (Blom), Indiana (Drew), and Ohio (me). Basically, no Taco Bell or Wendy's. We pretty much lived up to this goal, and here's my personal run-down of all the food we experienced:

1) BART AND YETI'S: Located right in Vail, Colorado, this is a great little Irish pub that we went to for lunch on St. Patty's Day. To start off with, the hostess had this fantastic green outfit on, and even though the wait was longer than quoted, eveyone was extremely nice. The burgers and sandwiches were great, the green beer was cold, and the place is named for two beloved dogs for goodness sake. Overall, this was a fantastic experience, a jewel among the mountains.

2) IOWA 80 TRUCK STOP: Somewhere between Rockford and Des Moines, in the middle of Iowa, you will find the World's Largest Truck Stop. God bless America. They feature over 800 truck parking spots, a movie theatre, more junk things to buy than I've ever seen, cool T-shirts, chrome and more chrome, a few fast-food places, and one very fine restaurant. Yes, this was the first meal of the trip we had, and it was hard to top. We sat at the bar and talked to Cora, one of the finest waitresses I've ever seen. She told stories we didn't quite understand, kept our waters filled, and the food wasn't too shabby either. Overall, it was a euphoric experience, and if anyone is driving on 80, you must stop. Ask for Cora. She'll be the one running away from you when you try to take her picture.

3) HOT DOG STAND: I had never been to Denver, and I loved the downtown. Eclectic and clean, spacious and intimate, old yet young, this is a city I could live in. (Plus they have a great opera season this year AND a great little shop devoted to all things Nepal...) We didn't want a spend a lot on lunch, plus we were getting anxious to get into the hills, so we enjoyed a meal at the hot dog stand, where we had the jumbo beef hot dog meal, which included the dog, chips, and a drink for only $2 or something. We sat in the boulevard eating and reflecting on the city and then when we got cold we could just jump on a shuttle back to our car.

4) CULVER'S: Okay, this is where we got a little lax on our goal. Drew had never eaten at a Culver's and I didn't think they even existed in Indiana or Ohio, and it wasn't until after we ordered our meals that we discovered they do. Nevertheless, the burger was great, the custard was pretty good (I've had better, both at a different Culver's and elsewhere), but Drew and I both agreed that the fries were some of the best we've ever tasted. I think that shows something. Every place in the world gives fries with their burger, but it's the burger that is the obvious focus. Culver's has it right...the burger is still pretty dang good, but you actually enjoy every last fry too. Finally a place has fast food with all the necessities covered. Granted, this is a pretty expensive fast food, but maybe you can just ask for a bucket of fries and save some money.

5) WHISKEY CREEK: On Monday night we stayed in Nebraska, in the amazing town that is Kearney. We were hungry, and thought Whiskey Creek might fit the bill. It didn't. It started off with Emily, our flustered hostess that later said some of the stupedest things we've ever heard (we called her over to the table to talk some more after she sat us.) I'll give a highlight: When she sat us, she asked us what time it was. We told her a little past 8. The response was amazing, "Wow...I always eat at 4." I work in a restaurant and I assure you that people eat at all times of day and I am quite certain Emily must know this as well. Just because she was flustered by three dashing men is no excuse for stupidity. My burger wasn't bad (you might notice that I love burgers and am always in the mood for one), but the other guys didn't like their sandwiches at all. Plus our waiter was somewhat of a goon, which never helps. I wouldn't really recommend this place, but we sure did get a lot of laughs out of it, which made it all worthwhile.

6) PAZZO'S: There is not too much in Eagle-Vail, so on a Friday night, this was a bumpin'-bumpin' place to be. You see, eveyone else's pizza looked good. The thing is, ours didn't and wasn't. We got the Sicilian Style and it was dry and hard. The menu said it fed 6-8, which actually meant there were a total of 8 pieces. So although this place is supposed to be pretty good and the people there seemed to be enjoying it, we left disappointed.

7) RUNZA: We had never heard of a Runza, but Nebraska has plenty of them. So on the way home, we stopped in Ogallala, Nebraska (yes, that's the name of this unfortunate town). I asked the girl at the register what she recommended and she said she loves the Cheese Runza and their onion rings. I tried them both and flat-out did not like my meal. Needless to say, the jokes were flying ("Yeah, that cheese runza sure gave me the runzas," or "At Runza, everything will just runza right through you") and although the burgers apparently were alright (Blom and Drew were smarter than me and stuck with something standard and relatively safe), I don't think I would ever go back.

Honorable Mention: PADDY'S in Eagle-Vail is a fantastic little Irish pub we went to for some St. Paddy's celebration. Everyone was loving the holiday, there was green galore, and our bartenders were amazing, especially the one who forgot to take our money.

Un-honorable Mention: THE ELEPHANT EYE at the hotel in Kearney was nice to look at (a bar up in a tree-house overlooking the pool), but left much to be desired. I guess you just can't expect good things from a bartender who is wearing flip-flops and a hooded sweatshirt.

So that's the run-down. At least at every place, even the ones with much-to-be-desired food, gave us something to remember and laugh about. Food and fellowship, two of the great things of life. Well, gotta runza. Peace.